


It's fine, we'll make it better

by krafty



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Diego Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Diego Hargreeves is Bad at Feelings, Diego Hargreeves-centric, Gen, How Do I Tag, Hurt Diego Hargreeves, I feel like I'm forgetting something oh well, Idk if they'd be minor or serious, OOC, Oh, Please Be careful, Self-Harm, Stuttering Diego Hargreeves, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, i guess?, injuries, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:47:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26078179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krafty/pseuds/krafty
Summary: Diego doesn't know what to do with these emotions. He chooses the wrong way.Please don't read this if self-harm triggers you!
Relationships: Ben Hargreeves & Diego Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves
Comments: 6
Kudos: 103





	It's fine, we'll make it better

**Author's Note:**

> I knowww, I should be working on my other story, but I had to get this out
> 
> Don't read this if self-harm triggers you/makes you uncomfortable/whatever! Stay safe <3  
> (It's... kinda graphic...? Like it's not just mentioned, figured I'd let y'all know)

Diego finds himself in his bedroom, alone, after a horrible training session. One beat him, yet again– he always does, it shouldn’t be a surprise anymore– and his dad ridiculed him for it. How’s someone with average strength supposed to beat _Luther_? He groans in frustration, flopping onto his cheap bed. The sheets are scratchy and uncomfortable. He slides down onto the floor. He hugs his knees to his chest tightly, ignoring the way his entire body is trembling.

He digs his fingernails into his knees. The temporary pain sort of makes the thoughts go away. If he can just _stop thinking about it_ , maybe he can stop _feeling these things_.

He thumps his head on the back of his bed, breathing shakily. He stares at the ceiling, eyes unfocused, trying not to let the tears spill. 

While his eyes dart around the room with blurred vision, taking everything in, his hands find their way under the bed. Before he knows it, he’s pulling out his knife collection. He picks up one of the recently-sharpened knives and twirls it in one hand, considering.

He brings the small knife to his arm. He doesn’t know why he’s doing it. It’s some kind of impulse, maybe. 

Before he can properly think anything through (although in this state, he probably couldn’t do that at all), his arm is bleeding.

Some kind of sickness curls in his gut, a mix of disgust, and embarrassment, and all of these other things he could never be able to describe properly. It almost overtakes him for a second, this feeling. It makes him want to curl into a ball and hide.

Instead, he flushes, eyes wide. He’s not supposed to do something like this. It isn’t supposed to make him feel better.

But it _does._ It _does_ make him feel better.

He cringes, staring at what he just did. He stares at the blade. 

It’s not a hard choice.

* * *

It’s safe to say that self-harming is a habit now. Every time the whirlwind of his mind becomes _too much,_ he finds a sharp object and just slashes, and cuts, and scratches, destroys his arms until…

…until they’re littered with red lines. Until it’s all okay. Until he can hear reason again. Until the pounding in his skull and the words in his mind fade to the background.

Every time, without fail, he feels disgusting. Disgusted by the blood. Disgusted that he can’t handle his feelings. Disgusted with _himself_ for stooping so low.

But it’s all he has now. It’s the only thing that works, without fail. Every. Single. Time.

Desperate times, right?

No one else knows about the things he does in the dark of the night. It’s best to keep it that way because this is the _only_ thing keeping him afloat right now. It’s best to cover his arms and lie and smile and pretend. No one really _needs_ to know, do they? No. So he just keeps it hidden, another thing he won’t tell anyone else. Not a single soul will _ever_ find out about this.

It’s sad because it doesn’t stay that way forever; it’s sad because that isn’t true.

* * *

It was another day. Just another _simple day_. Why did everything have to go so wrong so fast?

One minute Diego is sitting in his ( _locked_ ) room, thinking too much, _feeling_ too much. It’s usual for him to be so overwhelmed. It’s been happening a lot since he’s picked up on this… _habit,_ of sorts. It’s just, he’s kind of been drawing blood. Which is… well it’s not fine, but it won’t kill him. The real problem is when he’s doing it on autopilot, or when his hands shake too much, or when he presses just a _little_ too hard because he’s angry—

—yeah.

All of that explains the next minute, where he’s staring at a large wound in his arm.

He hadn’t meant to press so hard. He was just in a shitty mood, not in the right mindset (is he _ever_ in the right mindset? Is there really a right mindset for doing _this_ to yourself?), and he hadn’t… he hadn’t been thinking straight. He just pressed _too much, too hard,_ because he was angry. Because it was a way to let out some of those _feelings_. It didn’t help that he was _trembling_ so much.

Lord, he just _knows_ it needs stitches.

As the blood pours onto the shiny wood and his stupid white sheets, the panic settles in. Death was never part of the plan. _This_ was never part of the plan. It wasn’t supposed to go this far. His arm is bleeding _way too much_ and his head is filled with thoughts like _oh god, am I going to die,_ and _is this when everyone finds out?_

He stumbles to the door, struggles to unlock it because of the pain and the panic and the hazy thoughts and oh, God—

—the door swings open. He staggers out into the hallway and finds Mom. She helps him to the medical room and sits him down.

He feels extra woozy when she pulls out the needle.

When it’s done, and he’s feeling better, and everything is _Okay_ , he goes back to his room.

He thinks he saw Reginald’s disappointed face at some point, watching, _knowing._ Just the idea alone makes him sick.

It’s confirmed at dinner when he gets _that look._ The one that means he knows what you did. He knows you fucked up. He knows something that you don’t want him to know.

He knows, he knows, he knows, _he knows—_

He can barely stand to eat the food after that. It’s too much. And isn’t that just wonderful? It’s not like he can self-harm _now_. Not after all that. Not after Dad found out.

He’ll just have to deal with the feelings for now. Maybe he can sleep them all away. Forget about it all and pretend, for a while, that none of this ever even happened.

* * *

It’s a rainy Sunday. There aren’t any upcoming missions until late Monday (unless something pops up, as it often does). That means that no one in the household has any plans. It’s a rare day where there’s no training, either.

That’s how Diego finds himself on his bed, holding his usual cutting knife loosely in one hand. It’s dark, the room is blue, his window is open and pushing cold air in. It’s normal.

He twirls the knife in his hand, not daring to do some kind of flip. He doesn’t trust himself.

You see, he’s been trying to get clean ever since _The Incident,_ as he’d dubbed it. So that means willing himself to pack up his knives and set them under the bed. It means finding a healthier way to cope. It means being _better._ Better with his feelings, better with his coping, better with the pressure to be everything he’s not. Just… _better._ In every aspect, he supposes.

He’ll just cry silently in the middle of the night. He’ll lose sleep. This will change eventually. It _will_ get better. 

It has to.

He just sits on his bed, trembling, no way to let it out. For now, it’s all he knows. Because he _can’t_ cut again. Ever.

And that’s fine. It’s fine. It… it will be fine.

* * *

It’s been at least a month of being clean. He’s kind of proud.

But…

… but some days, it’s hard. It’s hard to resist the urge to feel around under his bed. Hard to stop himself from picking up a blade. Hard to keep himself clean and not _slice slice slice_ until it’s better. Until it’s all gone.

Sometimes, it’s hard to forget all of the self-harm. It’s hard to forget his dad’s face when he realized. When he knew. It’s so, _so_ hard to just forget. He wants to bash his skull in if it means everything goes away. He’d do anything.

Often, with the words in his head and the feelings in his heart, it’s almost too much. He almost grabs a razor, or a paperclip, or anything that could be used for some quick release.

Will he ever get over this?

He realizes that there will always be bad days, days where he can’t think of anything but the fresh pain, the blood. He’s accepted it. Everyone has bad days. It’s only natural that he does, too.

But he’s also trying new things, like drawing, playing music, anything. If it can help him, he’ll try it. Why not, right?

No one else found out about what he did. They knew he’d gotten hurt somehow, but luckily, he was saved from that particular hell. He’s grateful for that singular thing because it would make life so much _worse_ if they knew.

Regardless, he’s found better things. Things that can replace self-harm. Things he can use as an outlet, a place to get everything out, without marking up his arms.

And, overall, he’s feeling okay. And that’s good.

* * *

He should’ve known something would happen. He should’ve known that somehow this would get twisted.

It’d been a training session gone wrong. They’d been practicing saving people in realistic-ish simulations for at least an hour. They’d failed too many times for Reginald’s liking, it seems.

Because of Diego’s power to hold his breath indefinitely, he got to ( _had_ to) practice with a submerged vehicle. He’d tried his best to see through the water with no goggles. He’d found the car, he’d broken the glass, he’d done _everything_ he could possibly _do_ to save the “people” trapped inside.

It still hadn’t been enough.

Which brings him to now.

When he comes up for air (even though he doesn’t need it), Reginald is staring down at him with disapproval painted all over his face. He leans down and tilts Diego’s chin up to stare at him, some kind of intimidation tactic. It works enough all right. He looks away.

His siblings are watching with varying expressions. Some look concerned, some look empathetic, some are looking away. Dang, they got to see him mess up _so much._ They saw him fail.

It’s somehow much worse than his father’s gaze.

“That was very disappointing, Number Two,” Reginald starts, drawing Diego’s attention back to the man with the darkened eyes and the monocle.

“What are you going to do when this happens on a _real_ mission?” he continues. “When you inevitably fail, as you just proved to all of us, are you going to work harder? Or are you going to hurt yourself, as you are prone to do?”

Diego stares slack-jawed for about two seconds before the anger settles in. How _dare_ he tell _all_ of his siblings about that? How _dare_ he use it _against_ him like that?! He’s been getting better this _entire_ time–!

He forces himself out of the water and swings blindly at the man’s face. He’s surprised when the hit lands and he hears a crack.

He looks up, eyes wide, as his dad stares. There’s a moment of silence as they both try to figure out what just happened. The only thing anyone can hear is Diego’s heavy breathing, a few gasps from his siblings, and a small triumphant laugh (probably because someone _finally_ punched the man). Diego can barely process what he just did as it is. He takes a second…

…

…

…oh. Oh _fuck_. He just– did he just–?

He stumbles back and Reginald grabs his wrist in an iron grip. He knows he messed up, but _damn,_ that felt good. Why did that _feel_ so _good_?

The man pulls him along, drags him out of the room. He catches his siblings staring in shock before they, too, disappear. As they round a corner, he sees _The Room._ The one where his dad will place him in a tank of water and leave him alone for hours on end.

He starts to struggle, but he’s not strong enough. He can’t get away like this.

Great.

They reach the room. His dad ties a weight to his leg. In seconds he’s being thrown into one of the large tanks, already filled with water from a previous training session. He takes a final gasp of air before plunging into the frigid, ice-cold water.

He looks up just as Reginald covers the tank with its lid. He sinks to the bottom and just. Sits there.

He doesn’t ever want to remember the days where nothing was all right. Where he was anything _but_ fine.

He doesn’t want to remember taking a knife and—

He flinches back, trembling. Stop, stop, stop, _stop._ He doesn’t have to think about it. Don’t think about it. What’s the point of thinking about it?

He glances around the tank but there’s nothing to see.

Distract, distract, distract.

How is he supposed to distract himself when there’s nothing to look at?

He focuses on the coldness seeping into his bones. It’s… cold. And he’s cold. And it’s…

_As you are prone to do—_

_Slice, slice, slice— blood dripping from his arm, oh God, he went too far—_

He shakes his head vigorously. No, no, no, make it stop, he doesn’t want to know, he doesn’t _want to remember, don’t make him remember—_

_Thin scratches, hesitant at first, small things. It’s like a cat used his arm as a scratching post—_

Trembling, he curls inward, holding his head tightly. What else, what else—

He’s wearing his usual uniform. It’s soaked now, obviously, but—

_And why is it soaked?_

He wants to scream, but he’d probably drown if he tried. He can hold his breath, but not when screaming, of course. That’s just natural. That’s how screaming works. Right?

He wonders how long he’d do it. How long he could just scream into the nothingness and hope for a response.

Does he even _want_ a response?

_“Oh, dear, what happened to your arm? Not to worry, we’ll get you all patched up—”_

Would his throat hurt after? Would anyone know?

_He can still see the razor-thin lines if the sun hits them just right—_

Without even thinking, he takes his hand to his mouth and just. _Bites._ Bites down _hard._

He pulls it away quickly and stares at the teeth indents in the skin of his palm and the other side of his hand, trying to go back to not thinking about not breathing. It’s not even bleeding, it’s just red.

And to think, he’d been doing so well…

Was all of that for nothing?

Does… does this even count? He– he didn’t even– it was just one measly bite–

…but it’s going to keep happening if he doesn’t reign it in, isn’t it?

He frowns to himself in the dark of the tank. Maybe this is the last time. Yeah, he won’t do it again. It was just a one-time thing. A _mistake._ He hadn’t been _thinking_ , that’s all.

He hugs himself tighter and tries to stop thinking. The silence, the stillness of the water around him. Not breathing. Anything but _that._

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, head pressed to his knees, curled into a ball.

* * *

Diego opens his eyes when he hears footsteps. He thinks he might’ve cried, salty tears mixing with the water he’s submerged in, but he can’t be sure.

He unfurls, sits in a somewhat less pathetic position, and stares at the top of his watery prison. The lid slides off and he immediately struggles to get to the top.

He breathes in deeply as soon as he breaks the water’s surface. He leans his arms on the edges of the tank and takes a minute to adjust to breathing before clambering out.

He stands on unsteady legs and doesn’t bother looking at Reginald, just stumbles out of the room in his soaked clothes. Water drips onto the floor underneath him, and he takes a second to feel bad because someone will have to clean it before he navigates to his room.

When he gets there, he strips out of the drenched uniform and changes into some more casual clothes. He’s not going anywhere, so.

He makes sure to put on long sleeves, but only because he’s freezing. He wears a nice black sweater. It makes him feel a little better.

He climbs into his bed, pulling the stupid cold blanket over his shoulders. He glances at the time, and oh, it’s early morning. He thinks he went in around early afternoon.

Whatever. He turns around in bed and tries to stop shivering.

While he’s lying there, his door creaks open. He doesn’t turn around, he doesn’t _care_ who it is.

“Diego?” Ben’s voice is soft and concerned when he calls Diego’s name. Diego rolls over, staring up at his brother.

“W-w-what?” he stutters through chattering teeth. 

“Are you cold? I got you a blanket…” Ben steps into the room, Klaus following closely behind. Diego nods.

Ben throws the blanket over him and sits on the edge of the bed.

“Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah.” He doesn’t want to think about them knowing.

Oh God, they all know now, don’t they?

“Do you want to, um…”

“Do you wanna have a sleepover? Just the three of us?” Klaus finishes for Ben. Diego’s eyes widen. Do they… not care?

It’s still awkward to think about.

He smiles, just a little, and nods, “Y-yeah, that… that would be n-nice.”

Klaus slips out of the room, probably to go get something, and Diego sits up to talk with Ben. But before he can say anything, Ben does.

“What happened to your hand?”

He shrugs, holding it close to his chest, “N-nothing.” Ben frowns.

“Can I… put a bandaid on it?”

Diego makes a questioning noise, “Wh-why?”

“It’ll make me feel better.”

“O-oh, then. Okay?”

Ben smiles and sticks a bandaid on both of his bite marks. Diego stares at them for a second until Klaus barges into the room, fairy lights trailing behind him. He smiles widely and hangs them up. He lights them and sits on the bed.

“T-thank you,” Diego mumbles, appreciative of his brothers.

“It’s no big deal.”

“You would do the same for us!”

Diego grins, and they all sit together on his bed, chatting the night away in a dimly lit room, no care in the world.

It’s not perfect, but it’s nice. And nice is enough for Diego.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. Was going to end it sad but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Hope you enjoyed?


End file.
